Tag Archives: naff

Things I have learnt in the past week

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–I can be an “active” person

–getting out of bed when ones alarm goes off IS actually possible

–I crave approval like I crave hot beverages

–cheese; yes

–beer is still awesome, though

–when one comes upon a beer named “black lung” one should follow ones instincts and walk away

–protests can be tricky and rough and odd and divisive

–giant demon babies populate my city

–I am not as good a dancer as I think I am

–intentions don’t write essays

–the heady thrill of making friends with fun people is still like a drug to me

–balloons are magic

–tram inspectors are people too

–naps get better with age

–my memory is shit

–Paul Mercurio checked me out

–that last one was a lie

–flight booking ladies (I can’t remember their name) are very personable

–married men are good company (and I don’t mean that how it sounds), though

–being bid on and purchased by a married German is not not awkward

A summation of the film Mao’s Last Dancer, as texted between myself and my friend Jessica.

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Me: Hey, I’m from China and I guess I want to dance. So I will. Tadaa!

Jess: But I want to be American oh wait no I don’t.

Me: I also kind of like this bird. Oh no, I don’t.

Jess: Dancey. Dance. Dah-dance. Snore.

Me: Ooh my parents are here.

Jess: Choked. Up. It’s cos I’m too limber. Emotions just leak out. Oh wait. Not they don’t cos I can’t act.

Me: I am now completely ambiguous towards my native communism. For some reason.

The end.

Some stuff

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I have too much in my head. A small taste platter of what lurks within:

The world is so lovely, so lovely. And I spend a lot of time on facebook.

I jest about my mediocrity, but am concerned that it means I will fail at the things I find most important.

I read some of the work of this girl in my short fiction class and nearly disliked her based on envy alone and the envy threatened to close my throat.

The smell of rain today was wonderful and heavy.

My tooth may be in serious peril.

Opinions are important. Maybe. I don’t even know. But I don’t have mine all laid out like some people do and I wonder if that’s a big deal.

I love Melbourne.

Sometimes the wish that I could lose some weight nearly overtakes the wish that everyone would realise how cool they are and stop hating things.

My friend made some caramel slice and it’s basically just condensed milk with chocolate on top and it’s awesome.

I want to go away somewhere and think and breathe for like a week. Without facebook there to observe stoically.

Do you ever wish you could just tell people when you want to be mates with them, and ditch all the “oh, hey maaann..” bull? Me too.

I want to research anarchy and the bible and to start sticking shit up in public places.

I don’t feel well.

thanks for you time, interweb! You’re a doll.

Things I’m average at no. 398: Not being a sook– an addendum.

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So I got word earlier that I didn’t get this job that I really really really wanted. It was a Good Job. It was a Grown Up Job. I wanted this job a lot. When I didn’t get it, I cried and made for myself a small cave within my bedding and lay there and cried some more.

I was full of woe because this shit brings to mind many other things I’m average at like, having a real job, being employable, being an adult etc. And though usually I enjoy the charm of being completely average, embrace it and nuzzle its neck even, sometimes I want to just like, be good at something. I feel this is normal.

And so I got super excited about this job, and imagined myself doing it, and loving it and thought about changing my study to fit around it, and then they said they didn’t want me and the world once again looked at me and shook its head “no, you aren’t good enough”. Damn, man! That shit is cold!*

Any hoo, the part of the story I didn’t mention (along with any details at all) in my previous post was that I was offered a job the other day, just not this one. This was my bestest, I Can Do This Job job, shining like the light of the sun, and the other job says “hey!” and I was like “Oh…I guess..” *hair toss*.

So here’s me, in my bed, not doing assignments or like, washing myself, reminding myself of my shittiness while wailing into my pillow because one place found someone better qualified while another said they would love to have me. SOOK MUCH?

Gosh.

So I’m in the Cave of Sadness, and I look at my wall through the Slits of Misery (my eyes) and I see all the crap I’ve stuck up there. Crap that I dig, to remind me of things that are diggable. And I realise my life is pretty effing sweet. You can read about it here, on my other blog (ohmygoshpleasedon’ttellwordpresshe’llkillme) where I post photos of things I’m glad about.

I think it’s ok to feel sad, obviously. Sometimes I think it’s really helpful. Personally I love to crank the Damien Rice and bemoan my existence. I certainly don’t want to imply that I think it’s wrong to grieve or to mourn, even things like not getting the job you thought would be so right for you.

It’s just that I’m self aware enough to know that this job wasn’t just a job. It was me saying to me, “this is your chance to get something on your own, something hard and good and worthwhile”. And I was saying back to me “dude does that mean if I don’t get it..” and then I would reply “Yep. It means you’re shit. Officially.” And then I blew it, and that means every crappy thing I’ve ever thought about myself came true in that moment.

But the thing is, I know other stuff about me, and I know I got one job, and I know I have a wall full up of pictures of travel and friends and love and light so maybe just maybe I was wrong about me, maybe I should suck it the hell up and maybe it’s not worth staying in the cave tomorrow.

Maybe..

*Apologies. I watched some Dave Chappelle earlier, it gets under my skin man.

My neighbour is SO. LOUD. but not in a playing rock ‘n’ roll way, not in an interesting drunken rows with spouse way, in a “I have an impractically, incomprehensibly loud speaking voice and need to relate some anecdotes about doing laundry, building pergolas, and some face eatingly boring tales regarding who attended which family function with what bottle of tasty red” way.

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It’s like living next to Charlie Browns teacher when she’s older and more boring and has embraced the megaphone.

Things I’m average at No. 365: Liking the right stuff

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I was having a little Facebook tete a tete earlier, via the comments section on a link a friend of mine posted. Apparently the video, an allegedly hilarious clip of Cowboy Hiphop as yet unwatched by me, has been removed from YouTube because of a violation of its use… or some such . Anyhoo, a friend of the original poster commented that he had seen the video briefly on Glee before violently throwing up and passing out, a response to his obvious hatred for the show. I wrote that I was bummed that not only had I missed the original video, but an episode of Glee too to which he replied (in a sort of companionable tone, one show choir hater to another) that Glee is the worst thing in the world. At this point I had to confess to him, and also to anyone who is reading this, that I was in fact, serious.

I love Glee.

There. I’ve said it. And actually I’m completely unashamed. It’s fun and light and involves singing and dancing, which I love (except when involving children under 12 as that is only creepy and uncomfortable) and it doesn’t take itself too seriously and I am ridiculously entertained by it.

Now, the crowd I run with (side bar to state that I don’t run, am not a character in The Outsiders and am not sure at all why I chose that phrase) are often a little bit cool. They’d deny it, say surely I’m talking about someone else, but they know deep down, that a lot of their opinions and tastes are the “right” ones to have. They hate Muse now that they’re doing songs for the Twilight soundtracks, they love Arrested Development and use text lingo ironically. I say all this not to make fun of them, I share a lot of their loves and their disloves, but to point out the kind of people I’d be offending if I came out as a Glee fan. As it happens I don’t actually care and most of them are interstate which means the subject doesn’t come up much, but if it did I’m sure I’d get some heads shaking. That’s just the way I roll. I’m a maverick.

More things I shouldn’t love but do:

Kevin Costner

Romantic Comedies

Possibly Beyonce, although she hovers over acceptable sometimes. So hard to tell.

Vampire related books, movies and TV shows

Kevin Costners Field of Dreams

Friends, the show not the people, although of course I love that kind too.

Rod Stewart

John Denver

Guy Sebastions Like it Like That

Some R’n’B

Cougartown

Some Hip Hop

Kevin Costners Waterworld

And I could continue. I used to say (as recently as last week) that I’m allowed to like some shit because I like so much good stuff, but it’s more accurate to say who the hell cares.

When it comes to film and television I’m supposed to like Seinfeld and hate the Vampire Diaries. I’m supposed to love the indie music, except when it gets too popular, and hate the Miley (I do, hate her, by the way..). I’m supposed to roll my eyes at misspelled text messages and if I’m really good, I’m supposed to forsake Facebook all together because of its obvious affiliation with all that is naff and its clearly pro-Stephanie Meyer leanings.

I don’t do all that very well. And this post is actually a good reminder to myself to quit once and for all taking social currency so seriously. Liking shit along with the not-shit keeps me in fun pretty much constantly. It is almost inconceivable how easily entertained I am, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Cool means too much work, not enough show choir.


Things I’m Average at No. 119: Knowing Shit About Shit*

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Things happen all the time

Like, all the time. Some of them are bad, some are fun and some are awful. I, as it turns out, know very little about any of them. I have vague sort of opinions about stuff, about what I think is wrong and what is right. For one thing I think Tony Abbott should maybe stop opening his mouth and for another I think the extent to which we have fucked up our environment is a little hysterical.

When soldiers from Israel board a boat of activists and people wind up dead, that is horrifying. What people do to each other is grotesque, sometimes.

This particular tragedy brought to the fore how little I know about what is actually going on the world. It was seriously like “Israel? Right..They’re not the goodies. No. Are they in, Iraq? Or just near it..”. That is how poor my grasp on important gear is.

My ignorance is actually legendary. Well, no. It’s not, but within my head (and I choose to assume the heads of those I live with) it is sung about in halls where Vikings drink mead and toast the gods. When someone says they are an engineer, I still need a moment to imagine them doing anything but shovelling coal into a train engine in stripey overalls and a tall hat.

Except, as a sort of qualifier to the first statement, I do know shit about, like, actual shit. As in useless bits of bellybutton fluff info that no one cares about. Like I know a little som’ som’ about vagazzling, I know about snail slime, and I know the lyrics to just about every Celine Dion song (thank you mum) that exists.

So in summation, if you asked what the song “A New Day Has Come” is about, I would mention how it’s a break out classic, layering the themes of motherhood and a re-blossoming career side by side and that quite frankly, it gives me goosebumps. If, however, you were to ask me who Foucault is, I would respond with “ooh. Um.. Politics? Philosphy. He wrote… like, something big. Ish”.

Prioritise much?

*This particular item is not actually no 119 in a long list of things I’m average at. 119 is an arbitrary number chosen to give the impression that the things I am average at are so numerous, that were I to chronicle them the list that would result would be lengthy and its contents numbering beyond 119 and increasing exponentially as my self awareness about my deficits grow.

Ima let you finish, but…

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I mentioned in my last entry that I like people all coming together and sharing. That goes for anything really, a talk, a meal, books, thoughts, tazos. I honestly believe people are made to be in community. And I was an early  (in my life, not in the life of the net) naysayer about technology that it was claimed brought people together, when really it encouraged people to hide behind their screens and not leave their houses and fly kites and play etc. BUT, after learning a lot these last few months about the interweb and its associated glory,

I’m in!

I love it. I love its potential, it’s theory, it’s kingdoms of tiny nerdlings, all googling pictures of Captain Janeway and creating the next piece of software three people will use. Imagine, friends, the wonder of the internet, billions of people given the ability to communicate at the touch of a button, to connect, to find each other, to share and become a real, worldwide public sphere.

And to upload thousands of pictures of cats…

Yeah. I see the infastructure and the possibilities, but I don’t know how much I see people connecting. It is hard to quantify how much of blogging is done to “connect” and how much is because people are bored/“totally awesome”/angry etc. But I guess the very act of channelling this desire to blurt into such a public forum is in some way an act of reaching out. I for one don’t really expect anyone to read my blog –although my brother has apparently linked to my last entry (terrifying, dizzying new heights of fame) on his– and I don’t expect if people read it that they will wish to enter into a spirited discussion about my thoughts with me. I don’t expect this because I don’t see my opinions or shenanigans to be of any import to anyone and furthermore when I hit up other blogs I don’t comment. Cad.

Allegedly there are rules, and appropriate ways of communicating with other bloggers

I have witnessed the connections, when I think about it. I’ve stumbled on blogs that have moved from one site to another for instance, and brought their readers with them, all typing little messages of “good to see you here” and sending muffin baskets. So I guess it does happen. But how? My bro assures me that linking is totally dead now and a majority of people don’t comment, so how do we respond to the shit people are throwing around? Geert Lovink says it’s better to post a comment on your own page if you wish to disagree with anothers blog, as you’re unlikely to get a response. So basically we’re all just talking and engaging with each other, on our own blogs, in our own worlds. This surely poses a problem.

Geert Lovink also wrote about blogging as a nihilist impulse

I suppose that blogging is a form of nihilism. In chronicling our thoughts and insights, some of them fictional, some of them fantastic, some dark and troubling, we reject an idea of an established truth, particularly one that is dolled out by someone above us. So if we are writing our own truth and responsible for our own values and reason behind the desire to blog, one can reasonably deduce that to define a singular reason behind the billions of people shaping the blogosphere would be unrealistic to the point of ridiculous. So perhaps not everyone blogs to be heard, or to connect.

Take my bro linking to my blog for example. While I love that he did that, as it means that perhaps my efforts will not go wholly unnoticed in cyber-land, it scares me because if one of his more tech-savvy friends read it, I might be mortified. The danger of said nerd writing something like “Creative Commons is a much more multi faceted idea than you can possibly ever grasp with your puny earth brain. You’re a naff blogger” and me shutting Gerard (my laptop) forever and crying instead, is too great.

I think, no matter what our driving force to publish ourselves, at the end of the day we’re not burning our thoughts after we write them. It’s a very, very public forum, despite most blogs getting lost in the fog of so much info. And I think, despite the fear, I would love comments on my posts and will start to do similar, as my desire to connect to whatever “truth” people have and the authors of it, is too great to ignore.